


remember all my champagne problems

by water_poet



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Bickering, Character Study, Epilogue, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff and Smut, New York City, Post-Canon, Rain, Reunited and It Feels So Good, i don't know anything about chess, i guess, like most people in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_poet/pseuds/water_poet
Summary: Beth lets out a sigh, quiet enough to be swallowed by the hum of the engine and the rattle of dishes. The vapor from her breath clings to the glass, blurring the sky behind it.She wonders if Benny's waiting for her. She can't decide if she'd love or hate to see him at the airport, leaning against a concrete pillar with his infuriating smirk. She can practically see him, hands in the pockets of his duster, hat tucked under his arm.Part of her hopes he's there, just as she pictures. The other part doesn't want the game to end so soon. Ever since they met they've been chasing each other across the board, weaving in and out of checkered squares in a thrilling sort of tournament.That's another thing she likes about chess: there's no finish line.
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 7
Kudos: 86





	remember all my champagne problems

**Author's Note:**

> I think something that's pretty obvious about my ships is that I always simp for one or more of the people involved. It's essential!
> 
> Also, it's so nice to see TBS as an adult in something where he doesn't die! Very cool.

Beth rests her head against the window of the plane, her gaze sweeping over the watercolored clouds.  
  
"I should call him," she murmurs to herself.  
  
Her bodyguard turns his head, lowering the book he's been absorbed in - it's something fluffy and dry about pilots on the beaches at Dunkirk - and asks, "Pardon?"  
  
Beth waves her hand absently in his direction, not bothering to lift her forehead from the cool glass. "Nothing."  
  
She detests his presence in principle, but she's grown to appreciate the mutual understanding they share. He turns back to his book, signaling the hostess to refill his coffee.  
  
Beth lets out a sigh, quiet enough to be swallowed by the hum of the engine and the rattle of dishes. The vapor from her breath clings to the glass, blurring the sky behind it.  
  
She wonders if Benny's waiting for her. She can't decide if she'd love or hate to see him at the airport, leaning against a concrete pillar with his infuriating smirk. She can practically see him, hands in the pockets of his duster, hat tucked under his arm.  
  
Part of her hopes he's there, just as she pictures. The other part doesn't want the game to end so soon. Ever since they met they've been chasing each other across the board, weaving in and out of checkered squares in a thrilling sort of tournament.  
  
That's another thing she likes about chess: there's no finish line. There's no first and second prize, just winners and losers. She and Benny have jumped that line more times than she can count, mostly because she's not sure what counts as winning and losing under the rules they've been playing with.  
  
She taps her finger against the crease of her slacks, feeling the fabric flatten and bubble back up with each press. Up, down, up, down. The plane seems to rattle in response to her tumultuous thoughts.  
  
Her bodyguard clears his throat. She appreciates how unsubtle he is about it. "Miss Harmon?"  
  
"Hm?" She finally tears herself away from the window, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimmer cabin lights.  
  
"Perhaps you should get some sleep? There'll be no avoiding the press when we land."  
  
Beth nods noncommittally, letting her head fall back against the cushioned seat. She hasn't bothered with her hair in hours, and she knows it's bound to be a flattened mess when the plane touches down.  
  
She thinks about Benny's hair, almost too long and wavy enough to thread her finger through. It suits him more than she's already told him, the way it frames his boyish face and cocky smirk.  
  
Beth lets out another soft sigh, letting her eyes drift closed. She wonders if Benny knows she might be in love with him.  
  


* * *

  
Benny's not waiting for her on the linoleum floor of the Lexington airport lobby, and she's only half disappointed. She didn't expect him to be - that would have been unfair, really - but she wanted him to be.  
  
Her bodyguard was right about the press. She's scarcely able to exit the jetway before the flashing and clicking and buzzing of a hive of news outlets are swarming her.  
  
"Miss Harmon! Miss Harmon! How does it feel to deal such a blow to the Soviets?"  
  
"Good, I guess," she says. _Click. Flash._  
  
"What was it like, being surrounded by such a different culture?"  
  
"I'm not...I'm not sure? Chess is the same no matter where I go, so it never really feels all that different," she admits. _Flash. Snap._ Her bodyguard has started to part the crowds like the Red Sea, his larger form looming over hers as the reports have no choice but to step back.  
  
"What are your plans now?" _Click. Snap._  
  
She retrieves her luggage, gripping the handle tightly. It feels more solid than the ebbing and flowing mass around her. A shiny black cab is already waiting outside, its driver standing sternly by the passenger door.  
  
"I'm going to sleep!" Beth calls back, as she ducks inside the opened door, practically sliding across the burgundy leather to the opposite window. It's slightly warmer inside the car, and the radio is playing something peppy.  
  
"You're going to sleep?" the bodyguard asks, glancing over at her. "I told you to sleep on the plane."  
  
Beth closes her eyes. "Wouldn't be the first time I ignored you."  
  
He sighs. "And I'm sure it won't be the last, either."  
  
"Nope."  
  
The cab pulls away and Beth watches the familiar streets and signposts go by as she dozes.  
  
Looking back, it's really the most truthful she's ever been with a reporter.  
  


* * *

  
Her house smells like she left it - weed and wine and overcooked microwave dinners. It makes her dizzy, and she feels the near-insatiable pang in her gut for the bitterness of alcohol. She leaves the suitcase propped against the stairs and starts to open the windows. The curtains send up thin clouds of dust as she pulls them aside and pulls the windows up, the scent of her zinnias starting to waft in.  
  
She hauls her suitcase up the stairs when she's done, opening it but not bothering to unpack anything before falling back against bed. Her shoes drop off her feet and onto the carpet with a tiny sound.  
  
She's not sure when she falls asleep, but she must have. Her mouth is sticky and her neck aches, and her bedroom is almost entirely dark. Getting to her feet, she shuffles across the carpet to hit the light switch.  
  
As she passes the bathroom on her way back down the stairs, Beth catches sigh of her reflection. It looks the same as it has for a long time now, red hair and wide eyes, and she's perplexed why it surprises her. Maybe she'd expected everything to be different after Moscow, that maybe everything she'd done would reflect itself onto her appearance.  
  
The feeling of relief that fills her chest for a moment is all she needs to realize that she was afraid of that possibility.  
  
One of her mother's favorite laugh-track soaps is on when Beth turns the dial on the TV. She shucks her slacks off and leaves them in a bundle by the ottoman, cracking open a bottle of coke and sitting on the couch with her knees to her chest.  
  
She glances towards the phone a few times. She tells herself - as she's been telling herself all day - she's not expecting anything. The laughter of the TV crackles slightly, the face of the actress onscreen splitting for a moment. It might have been horrifying, if Beth was really paying attention.  
  
"Oh, dear! I'm terribly sorry, I didn't see you there!" gasps the woman onscreen, clasping her cheeks in shame. Beth snorts into her soda, coughing as the bubbles burn at her throat and nose.  
  
"Okay. Enough TV, then," she decides, setting the bottle on the ottoman and reaching across to turn the dial again. The screen flicks off on a frozen image of the man - a husband, she presumes - comforting the woman about her mistake, his mouth shaped around the word "darling."  
  
"Darling," Beth mutters. For all the times she's heard the nickname parroted in films, she never hears it in person. That's probably part of the romance of it all, she decides. She's not sure if she'd like someone to call her darling. She doesn't let herself mull it over, retrieving her half empty bottle and ducking into the cool night air for a late smoke on the back porch.  
  
It's already past midnight. The night is clearer than usual. Beth takes a long drag from her cigarette and watches the smoke curl up against the inky sky, moving over the tiny pinpricks of starlight like a fog.  
  
In the distance, Beth hears an engine roar. She pulls her housecoat - Alma's housecoat - tighter around herself.  
  
"He'll call tomorrow," she murmurs, to no one in particular. They're between moves, that's all. Studying the board, planning every possible next move as the clock ticks beside them. She's sealed her next move away from prying eyes until they start again.  
  
Another cloud of smoke floats across the sky. She snuffs the cigarette out against the damp wood of the porch railing and flicks it into the grass, still glittering with dew.  
  


* * *

  
Now that she's not confined to a Russian hotel room, Beth wanders. She goes downtown and browses the dress section, letting her fingertips trail across the fabrics and patterns. She sits at the chess tables at the park and runs games with herself in the sun. Jolene stops by for dinner twice a week, at least.  
  
"Are you married yet?" Beth asks coyly, tapping the stem of her wineglass. It's filled with cola, but it helps. And Jolene likes the look of them, anyway.  
  
The kitchen is lit by the overhead lamps as they sway slightly in the breeze coming in from the open windows. The remains of a store-bought meal are littered across the table on ceramic plates and silver dishes, the half-empty bottle of cheap wine sitting at Jolene's left.  
  
Jolene laughs, her head falling back. Her earrings catch the light as the wooden legs of her chair let out a tiny screech against the tiled floor of the kitchen. "Not yet, baby. He's still trying to break it to the first wife," she smirks. "I don't mind waiting on the side, long as he treats every day like it's fuckin' Christmas." She laughs again, half to herself, before fixing her eyes on Beth. "What about you? Marry that cowboy yet?"  
  
Jolene says it because she knows the answer, and she knows Beth's reaction.  
  
Beth tries not to give her the satisfaction, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms. Jolene's smile broadens anyway, and even if she's never cared for chess, she might have been better than Beth with her talents at reading everyone.  
  
"He's not a cowboy. He only thinks he is," Beth says.  
  
Jolene waves the words away dismissively with her hand, looping one arm around the back of the chair and leaning back. "Don't avoid the question, Beth. I can see right through you."  
  
"Why'd you have to ask, then?" She challenges.  
  
"Just want to hear you say it. Plus, you light up whenever I mention his scrawny ass," Jolene replies.  
  
She's not wrong on either count, Beth admits to herself. Out loud, she only says, "Haven't heard from him since Moscow."  
  
"You're not gonna call him? Shit, cracker, I figured you was more...aggressive than that," Jolene says. Her disappointment is more apparent than usual, and Beth feels like a girl in a too-stiff orphanage uniform again.  
  
"I'm afraid he won't pick up," she admits.  
  
Jolene lets out an exasperated breath, her curls moving like leaves in the breeze as she shakes her head. "Beth, baby; since when is you afraid of taking a little risk?"  
  


* * *

  
It's an 8 hour bus ride, and Beth wonders how many road signs a person can count out the window until they go crazy. She's up to sixty-three, and she's pretty sure she's still sane. Her finger taps at the crease of her slacks absently with each sign she makes a mental note of. They're frequent enough that she doesn't have much time to think in between.  
  
She tries not to think about Benny, or the expression on his face when she knocks on his door. She has to plan for every outcome, she knows, but she doesn't want to think about the scenarios where he slams the door in her face or stares blankly like she's a stranger. Unlike chess, the outcomes are infinite, and Beth doesn't like the unquantifiable.  
  
Jolene had chided her over the phone before she left.  
  
"A surprise visit? Honey, I said risk, not crazy."  
  
Beth sighs, folding her blouse and setting it neatly in her suitcase. The lemon-yellow fabric has a slight shine in the lamplight. "Can't take it back now," she laughs, adjusting her chin as she cradles the phone against her shoulder.  
  
"You're gonna wish you had, cracker. Men aren't ever worth it."  
  
Beth reads and re-reads. She keeps herself distracted until the sun sets and there's nothing to see to occupy her mind. Outside, the trees have gotten sparse, and she can see the speckled lights of the city in the distance.  
  
She doesn't know how anyone could manage in New York, even Benny. It's always too hot or too cold, and nothing is every the same, or pleasant to look at. The neon lights and chipping roads are garish and rough and Beth always feels like the city itself is crowding in on her. Beth's always been one to appreciate the finer things. She doesn't make a secret of it - stylish dresses, modern furniture, and excessive room service. If there's anything fine about New York City, she's yet to find it.  
  
Then again, maybe that's the part that appeals to Benny. The constant bustle and closeness, bumping his ego as he feels like the world itself wants to be closer to him. Maybe that's why he appeals to her; something rough around the edges, coarse and honest, a forbidden fruit in her still wide-eyed Eve's world.  
  
When the bus pulls into the stop, it's raining. Beth wrinkles her nose momentarily at the thought of getting her suitcase wet, but her legs are stiff and the handle on the case is loose anyway.  
  
Her heels splash against a puddle, nestled in a hollow in the pavement as she drops down from the bus. Cold, grey water droplets leap up and cling to her stockings, and she sighs.  
  
The rain drums an ugly, random pattern against the plastic of her hood. She knows better than to hail a cab alone, at this time of night, but that doesn't make the mile-walk to Benny's flat any more bearable, or any less wet.  
  
One good thing about the rain and the evening is the anonymity. She looks like any other person, trying to make her way through the downpour with her head ducked, feet splashing and clamping along the dingy sidewalks.  
  
Does Benny just love knowing he's recognizable, with his stupid hat and coat, in a world where thousands go by without a thought? It sounds narcissistic enough for him.  
  


* * *

  
One way or another, she makes it to his door.  
  
Maybe she should have waited to knock, given it a moment in her mind. Even if she's certain of her move, she reaffirms herself more often than she'd like to say.  
  
Her fingers are cold and her knuckles are red as she raps on the door.  
  
A second passes. Then five. Then ten. She grips the handle of her suitcase tighter. The queen is not retreating yet.  
  
Through the endless hum of falling rain, she hears the lock of the door slide open before the door follows.  
  
Benny's just like she left him. His wavy hair frames two dark eyes, his lips slightly parted in the ghost of a greeting beneath his mustache. The gold of his necklace glints against his black shirt.  
  
"Beth?"  
  
He sounds bewildered and frightened and pleased and relieved all at once. She lets it hang for a moment in the damp air.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
She shrugs, water droplets catching the neon lights of passing cars as they slide off her raincoat. "I got tired of waiting for you to call."  
  
He blinks. She tries to savor the expression, the amazement, the way he fights a soft smile as it tugs the corners of his lips.  
  
"Just had to see me in person, then?" He asks, shifting his weight to one foot and resting against the doorframe, his usual smirk starting to emerge.  
  
"Don't let it go to your head. It'll burst," Beth says.  
  
Benny's laugh is short and sharp. "Can't argue with that one." He steps back, pulling the door open wider and taking a step back. His feet are bare against the faded hardwood floor.  
  
Beth steps inside.  
  


* * *

  
"You finish that interview with the president yet?" Benny asks casually, setting a chipped cup of tea in front of Beth at his excuse for a dining table.  
  
She shakes her head. "I haven't really felt like getting back in the spotlight," she says simply. "Besides, I didn't do it for the US or capitalism or whatever. I did because I could."  
  
Benny stirs a few packets of sugar into his tea. They're a patchwork of colored papers and logos, nabbed from diners and bars across the city. Beth admires the dedication, the compulsion.  
  
She catches Benny's eye. She knows what he's going to say, and he knows that she knows.  
  
"And what are you going to do now?"  
  
Beth huffs, jutting out her lower lip so wisps of frizzy hair puff up about her forehead. "I came here to avoid that question," she says. It's mostly true; she doesn't want to think about her future in a month or a year. Beth hates stagnation and she's afraid to think she's found herself in it so she only dwells on the things she trusts will continue to change.  
  
But she also came because whatever her future is, she wants Benny in it.  
  
He shrugs. His tea must be more sugar than tea now, Beth thinks, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Well, that's not gonna happen. If you're staying I need to know."  
  
Beth sighs. "Let's say I am. For your sake."  
  
"Appreciate it," Benny says, and Beth can see the corners of his eyes fold in a grin behind his mug.  
  
A beat passes. Then two. Beth's never minded the lulls in conversation that most seem to find so awkward. But she doesn't want the conversation to lull. She spent hours on a bus trying to think of what to say to Benny Watts, a hundred thousand different moves to play.  
  
And now she can't say anything.  
  
"You wanna play a few rounds?" Benny asks.  
  
It's Beth's turn to feel a smile at her mouth. "Thought you'd never ask."  
  


* * *

  
They're halfway through their third game (tied one to one) when Beth realizes Benny's staring.  
  
He doesn't stare at her with leering countenance or sour judgement. He looks at her like she's nothing special and like she hung the stars all once. As if all the ordinary things about her made her something in his eyes.  
  
She remembers Cleo's warning.  
  
"What are you looking at?" She asks, her voice low.  
  
Benny meets her eyes, ever confident. "You."  
  
He means it and Beth feels the same ache in her chest when Benny took her arm all those months ago and asked if she still liked his hair.  
  
She did. She does.  
  
Maybe shouldn't be so surprising to realize that Benny sees her as herself, and yet it is. It feels almost strange, raw and exposed in the knowledge that she's not a woman or a genius or a delicate thing to be treasured when his hands are on her. She's Beth, and that seems to be more than enough for Benny.  
  
He opens his mouth to say something and Beth pushes the board aside and hugs him, pieces clattering to the floor. (She makes a mental note she had mate in three. A win.) It's an impulse, a move coming to her in a moment. It's uncalculated and risky and she does it anyway because she knows no matter how she plays her pieces, Benny will rise to meet her.  
  
He does now, as one arm wraps around her waist and the other around her shoulders, returning the hug. Their legs are curled awkwardly under then, but Beth doesn't care.  
  
Truth be told, Beth had expected him to be an awkward sort of person when it came to hugs - he always stands so aloof, like a statuette with velvety ropes around it to prevent museum-goers from getting too close.  
  
Hugging Benny is nothing like any part of a museum.  
  
"I really did miss you, you know," Benny murmurs, her hand resting against her hipbone. She feels the pad of his thumb through her blouse as he gently strokes her side.  
  
"I know," she replies, letting her eyes drop to his lips for the briefest moment.  
  
Benny runs his tongue over his teeth as he rolls his eyes. "You're supposed to say it back, Beth."  
  
She purses her lips. Their noses are almost touching. "Where's the fun in that? No one likes an easy win."  
  
He cocks a brow. "I sure as hell don't mind one."  
  
His tone is as proud as ever, but there's a pleading hardness in his eyes. Benny always knows what Beth means. They see things the same way. But he wants to hear her say it.  
So she does.  
  
"I missed you, too."  
  
She holds his face when he kisses her, hands angled carefully about the slope of his jaw. His fingers splay against her ribcage and rest beside her head, long and deft, as arrogantly confident against her skin as they are against the carved wood of a rook or a pawn.  
  
Is she still winning? She feels like she ought to care more about the answer than she really does but it's easy to forget most everything when Benny kisses her. His tongue brushes against her lower lip and she decides he can win this round if it means he keeps kissing her like that.  
  
It's a trade-off. A strategic sacrifice for her own victory in the long run.  
  
Benny breaks away suddenly, and Beth all but pouts. He chuckles, tucking a few strands of red behind her ear in an achingly familiar gesture. "Stop thinking," he says.  
  
"I'm not," Beth protests.  
  
She's a bad liar. Benny knows it, too.  
  
"Think about kissing me, then," he offers.  
  
In spite of herself, Beth feels another smile tugging at her jaw. It feels warm and irresistible and she concedes, kissing Benny again before he catches too much of a glimpse.  
  
Benny's room as still sparse and disorganized, cotton sheets stretched over a few stacked mattresses, magazines and books stacked in corners and strewn across the desk.  
  
Beth doesn't mind. She didn't mind the first time because Benny's mouth was on hers and his hands were grazing the soft skin under her blouse. That's certainly the case now, and Beth wonders if it's possible to mind anything with Benny like this.  
  
It's the same and different, the same pieces and the same player but a whole new game as Benny pulls her into his lap on the bed, hands wrapped under her thighs as she kisses him like her life depends on it. It doesn't, because that would be absurd, but it's a rather romantic notion.  
  
Benny's lips graze against her neck, his mustache coarse and ticklish where it touches her skin. "Was this the strategy all along?" he asks coyly. One of the hands under Beth's thigh slips up beneath the hem of her blouse to run over the smooth skin of her lower back. She shivers as his fingertips pass over the field of fine hairs, gentle and eager.  
  
She lets herself chuckle, the muscles in her neck flexing against Benny's mouth. "You think I'd tell you if it was?"  
  
"No," he admits. Before Beth can say anything else, Benny rolls them over, pinning her to the mattress and knocking the breath from her lungs. "But I'd like it if you did."  
  
"Would you like me?"  
  
A softness crosses over Benny's features. He has a gentle sort of face, rounded curves over a strong, straight jaw. His eyes are tired but young, the freckles and marks dotting his cheeks charming in their asymmetry. Beth maps his face like she does a chessboard, and she finds a world of infinitely more than the 64 squares have ever offered.  
  
"I already do."  
  
He means it.  
  
Beth smirks up at him, reaching up to twirl his hair between her fingers. "Then I don't have to tell you."  
  
He holds her and moves her like he's always seemed to know how. She wonders if its because they're too different or too similar that they match each other's jigsaw parts so well as Benny leans against her knee, the sharpness of his cheekbone seeming to fit perfectly in the hollow of her bones.  
  
"Are you...are you thinking about chess again?" Beth asks breathlessly.  
  
Benny's canine grazes against the soft skin of her inner thigh as he grins and laughs. As he speaks, his lips brush against her, delicate. "Take a guess."  
  
The hand in his hair tightens. Beth feels a soft wince against the damp cloth of her panties as she tugs the sandy locks harder. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Benny keeps it so long for just this reason.  
  
"No," she says. It's not a guess, and he knows it. His eyes meet hers as she props herself up on her elbow to look down. There's none of the lost haze of the college boy or the overly gentle hesitance of Harry. Benny's eyes are dark and sharp and wanting, just how she remembers them.  
  
The insufferable ego doesn't leave his gaze as he leans forward and runs her tongue along the damp cloth between her legs. Beth sucks in a breath through her teeth and her head falls back against the edge of the headboard. "Fuck."  
  
She feels Benny chuckle against her. "Bump your head, there?"  
  
She tugs his hair one more time. "Shut up. I don't want to hear you talk. I want you to do something else with you mouth," she commands.  
  
"Feelings bossy, are we?" His lips are so close to her cunt. She can feel the slightest pressure against her panties as Benny speaks.  
  
"Yes," Beth agrees, and pulls him in.  
He obliges this time, opening his mouth to tongue at her through the thin cotton. Beth's gasp catches in her throat as she feels the friction tease at her clit. Benny hums, appreciative and far too pleased with himself as he takes the soaked fabric between his teeth and pulls it down her legs until he can all but tear it away with his fingers.  
  
He's just as good as she remembers - really, hardly a day has gone by that she hasn't remembered, and someone with an attitude as sharp as his is bound to have a good tongue - and he knows it. She doesn't even mind that he knows it as she grips his curls, hard enough that it must hurt but it doesn't slow him down.  
  
"Benny," Beth says, her voice almost a hiss, and his teeth are smooth against her cunt as he _grins_ against her.  
  
He takes altogether too much pleasure in rendering her speechless, but Beth's as arrogant as he is and anyway, she'd never dream of denying someone a rightful pride in their accomplishments. She knows herself well enough to know that the way Benny makes her feel is remarkable.  
  
It's hard to pinpoint how long they stay tangled about each other, breath hot and hungry, fingers clutching and curling at the ends of hair and the swells of thighs and hips.  
  
When they've paused (Beth hates to think it would ever be over) she curls against his body, one hand resting against his torso, over his heart. She not as surprised as she thought she'd be when she finds the rhythm steady, only slightly accelerated. She feels Benny's lips in her hair as he speaks.  
  
"How long are you staying?"  
  
Beth laughs wryly. "Deciding whether or not to pull the raft out again?  
  
"Mostly what I need at the grocery store, actually. I don't think I can deal with you giving me shit for not being able to scramble eggs for six weeks straight. Again."  
  
Beth find herself giggling. She wants to detest the sound, but Benny's mouth curves into a smile and she can't.  
  
"What's keeping you in New York?" she asks playfully.  
  
"There's a great burger place a block down, I can't imagine being away from it," Benny teases back. He loosens his arms around Beth, moving further down the mattress so they're lying face to face. His skin is still damp, the highlights of his face almost glowing in the warm lamplight from the corner of the room. "What's keeping you in Kentucky, hm?"  
  
"The living room furniture set. It's really nice. I got it on sale."  
  
Benny laughs, his breath hot against Beth's skin. "You would."  
  
"Mm, I'll pretend I'm not reading into the implications of that."  
  


* * *

  
"The snow's coming down, isn't it?" Benny notes, his voice unmistakably taking on a teasingly false casualness.  
  
"Mm," Beth agrees over the rim of her mug of tea, curling her legs closer to her on the couch. Benny's shirt smells like oak and leather. "You think?"  
  
"Yeah. It'd probably be murder to try and get a cab to the airport now," Benny says, not even bothering to his his smirk as he leans against the kitchen doorframe, his eyes never faltering from Beth's.  
  
"I guess I'll have to stay a little longer, then," Beth says. The game is still going, even now, darting around each other to meet and part. She's still not sure who's winning.  
  
Benny approaches, his bare feet making no noise against the floor as comes to sit beside Beth on the couch. "I'll start charging you rent," he says.  
  
"Hm, is the sex not covering it anymore?" Beth grins.  
  
Benny shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching to reveal the smile he's fighting. "Price just went up."  
  
"Extortion, Benny Watts."  
  
"Business, Beth Harmon."  
  
She kisses him again. She's winning.

**Author's Note:**

> These two are gonna look 30 when they're 63.


End file.
